


Greed

by Treegoats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Burning, Eating Things That Shouldn't Be Eaten, M/M, Ramsay Bolton Being His Own Warning and all, Rape, Relentless Misery, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29618631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treegoats/pseuds/Treegoats
Summary: Reek and Maslow's Pyramid of Hell.Reek is starving and exhausted and that's how Ramsay likes it.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Greed

**Author's Note:**

> Look this is just... please don't expect anything sensitive with this one. That's not your treegoat's friendly trauma recovery fic, though it _is_ my recognisably weird shit, I suppose. I didn't plan on sharing this with others at first, but as this nefarious little food torture grew, I thought, some of you might appreciate if I did. And you know sometimes it feels good to not be alone with one's evil writings, so here goes. This is torture. And overall nastiness. Only read this if this is the content you want to read. You're welcome.

Reek finds a stray bit of straw that swept over from the neighbouring kennels into his cell, and he eats it. He claws at the bare stone floor with bloodied fingers, scrapes for edible dirt between the tiles. He gnaws at the neck of his tunic, tries to suck some sustenance out of the grime caked into the fabric. He chews a new hole through his rags with broken teeth.

Two nights ago, Lord Ramsay fed him warm broth. The unexpected treat did little to quench his hunger but served to wake his stomach from resigned hollow to yearning pain: _More, please, more_. It's ungrateful, Reek knows, but Reek can't help his desperate need. 

The hounds growl and scurry, just nearby, impossible to reach. Lord Ramsay only sometimes allows Reek to warm himself against their animal bodies. Most times, he's to sleep alone, freezing on the barren floor. Could he eat a dog? Reek wonders. Could he sink his throbbing teeth into their flesh, could he strangle a muscular neck with his mangled hands, could he eat them raw? Of course he couldn't. He's too much too weak. But would he? Would he eat a friend?

He licks the mouldy dampness off the floor. He chews at his arm, at the weeping crusts where Ramsay's whip hit, at the shreds of skin where he cut him. He swallows a flap of skin, and he eats it.

When he finally faints, he dreams of meat. In his dream, the cell fills with rats, an ocean of rats, and Reek catches one after the next after the next and gorges himself on fur and blood and broken bones until his belly threatens to burst. In his dream, the cramp in his stomach becomes a hound that bites and rips his way out his guts, fangs like swords, claws like knifes, until he's flayed inside out. Ramsay laughs loud and triumphant and Reek wakes sweating on the floor, fingers clawed under his ribs, insides rolling in pain.

Desperate, Reek starts scratching at the floor again, scraping for edible dirt.

When they come for him in the morning, he nearly doesn't want to rise. There's a foggy pressure behind his eyes. His limbs feel too leaden to move. The fetters on his ankles and wrists are so heavy. But he has his tasks to accomplish and the terror of what Lord Ramsay will do to him if he fails to obey trumps all and any exhaustion. So he trembles his way up to his feet, dark spots in front of his eyes and all, and does as he is ordered.

He's to scrub the stairs and corridors surrounding the great hall. Fainting counts as disobedience, he has long learned, so Reek applies himself to stay conscious and to keep working. His heart is racing, his head pounds.

When nobody is looking, he drinks the dirty water from the pail. When he finds bits of rushes on the floor, he puts them into his mouth, and he eats them. He finds a dried twig, and he eats it. He finds a tiny feather, and he eats it.

"Are you hungry, my greedy Reek?"

It's Ramsay. Reek's heart drops through the floor. It shouldn't be possible for Reek to be caught unaware by Ramsay's approach. Reek usually senses Ramsay's presence long before he sees him. Ramsay is a beacon of dread pulsing through space, he is the focus of Reek's existence. Reek knows Ramsay by step, he knows Ramsay's mood by the cadence of his feet, feels Ramsay's needs by the creak under his boots. Reek must have been inexcusably unalert.

Did Ramsay see him eat from his floors? Did Ramsay see him steal this food from his castle, unallowed, unpermitted?

Ramsay crouches in front of Reek and lifts Reek's chin with a finger.

"Are you hungry?" he repeats his question. You mustn’t make Ramsay repeat a question, not ever.

"Yes, Master," Reeks whispers. You mustn’t lie to Ramsay, not ever. "I'm sorry, Master."

Reek braces for a blow, but Ramsay caresses a thumb over Reek's hollow cheek.

"I'm glad you are," he smiles.

When he stands, Ramsay topples the pail with a kick. The water drenches Reek's rags.

"You'll do the stairs up to my chambers when you're done with this," he commands, "and then you'll come to see me."

Ramsay's steps recede and Reek trembles in relief and gratitude and fear.

When Reek reaches Ramsay's chambers, it's past evening. It took him that long to finish his chores. His few fingers are red and raw, his limbs tremble in exhaustion. Ramsay shows no signs of impatience.

"Enter, enter, my sweet Reek," he greets, jovial. "Come in, come in."

Ramsay calls, and a tray of steaming food is brought over.

Reek expects a game: Earn your meal by enduring agony. Ramsay and Reek have played endless variations of this game. The horrors Reek submitted to for a scrap of food... the memories could gut Reek with terror, but Reek is filled with a more bottomless, more primal fear: He is starving. He will do anything for food. Anything. Anything.

"Undress," Ramsay tells him.

There is no hesitation to Reek's compliance. His rags fall to the floor and he stands naked in front of Ramsay, damage exposed.

"Wait until I command you," Ramsay tells him.

Reek would tremble in fear about what pain Ramsay has planned next, but Reek has no mind for what's next. He has mind only for the overwhelming presence of food. The plates on Ramsay's table are overflowing -- apples like gold, crisp potatoes, juice dripping hot from the meat like a dream -- and set right in front of Reek, just in arm's reach. The smell curls up Reek's nostrils, bewitching. He could extend a hand and grasp. He could bury his mouth into the dish, if he dared.

Ramsay watches Reek while he eats. Ramsay's eyes are glued onto Reek's ribs, onto Reek's face while he gobbles down one bite after the next, slow and deliberate. Ramsay devours. Ramsay chomps and swallows. Sauce dribbles down Ramsay's chin. He chews loudly, he slurps his wine. Ramsay licks his oily fingers. Ramsay licks his knife.

Reeks licks his cracked lips, waiting, obediently waiting.

Reek waits through Ramsay cleaning one plate, then the next. He obediently waits through Ramsay wolfing his way through his meal, down to the last crumb. Ramsay licks up the final rest of sauce with a long red tongue. Ramsay burbs, smacks his lips, sits back and sighs: "Ahhh." He pats his belly, content.

He smiles at Reek.

Reek's sight flickers. His ears buzz. He didn't deserve the food, he tells himself. That's for being presumptuous. That's for wallowing in insolent assumptions. Ramsay never promised food, Reek should never have expected. Spoiled cunt that he is.

"Come here," Ramsay orders.

Reek obeys.

Ramsay's nose sniffs at Reek's hungered belly. His hands squeeze his ribs, tender, nearly tender, for half a moment. Then he kicks Reek's legs from under him and slams him hard onto his back.

When Ramsay takes Reek on the floor, it's with the brutality of well-deserved punishment.

Ramsay doesn't speak to him. There are no guessing games tonight, no back and forth. Reek knows his crime; Ramsay knows he knows. This is the remedy. The pain of what Ramsay does is vast enough to snuff out hope and total enough to extinguish hunger. Greed splinters off Reek. He should never have hungered.

Hours later, Ramsay lifts Reek's bloodied head by his grimy hair. He tugs Reek to his feet. Reek wobbles where he stands, clutching to Ramsay for balance.

Ramsay pats Reek's wet cheek, raises Reek's face up until Reek stares right into Ramsay's eyes. "You eat when I say you eat," says Ramsay. He pushes Reek against the wall, presses thumb and fingers under his jaw. "You sleep when I say you sleep." He squeezes his hand, slowly crushing Reek's windpipe, until Reek coughs for air, until Reek's vision goes dark. "You breathe when I say you breathe." Ramsay releases him and Reek gulps in long, pained swallows, lungs burning.

Reek understands. He understands.

"Keep standing, don't move," Ramsay commands.

Ramsay wipes the blood of his hands. Ramsay rolls his shoulders, content.

Ramsay unceremoniously spreads into his bed and falls asleep near immediately. He snores loudly, covered in warm furs, a warm solid mass, invincible and all-knowing. Reek struggles to stay on his feet and to never close his eyes. How he finds the endurance to, he couldn't say. Reek is close to faint, he has no strength left. But Ramsay will know if he disobeys. 

In the morning, they have him clean the stables, and Reek finds an apple core, but he would never dare eat it.

It takes him two more days to understand the new game.

When Ramsay's boys intercept him in the evening, when they keep him from slinking into his cell to smack him around some, Reek doesn't reflect why. Some nights are like that. The boys keep him alert with pain and viciousness, and isn't that what Reek is there for? Reek's a thing to use for entertainment, and so the boys use him. They use him through the night and release him only coming the day, sending him off to his chores, exhausted beyond comprehension. It's only when Damon warns him: "If you're caught sleeping, both your feet get skinned up to the knee", only when the same scene repeats itself the night after -- now three nights without a lick of sleep -- that Reek understands. _You sleep when I say you sleep_. Ramsay means to keep him awake.

On the fifth night -- or sixth? -- Reek has lost track of time, Ramsay calls for him. Reek would worry about losing track of time, usually. They can break his bones and rape him every night, but they can't take his wits. He must pay attention. He must be careful. He must remember his name and his rhymes and his days. But he can't think far enough for worry. He's barely even afraid of Ramsay's summon. His consciousness has been reduced to one purpose: Stay awake, do as you’re told. Obey. 

A plate full of food is waiting for him, in Ramsay's chambers. Ramsay is whistling, good-humoured. Reek might be hallucinating the food. Rats and ants have been crawling over the walls and over Reek's limbs, but whenever Reek tried to touch, they turned to air. The lack of sleep is an ice pick hammering through his skull. Reek can't coordinate his movement very well. Reek doesn't know what he sees any more.

"Reek!" Ramsay says. Ramsay is blurry in Reek's vision. "Come here," says Ramsay, and Reek comes, meek as lamb. Ramsay studies him, looking very pleased with himself.

The food is real. It's solid and smells, deliciously, of life.

"Reek, I'm giving you a choice, because I am generous," says Ramsay. "Never say I didn't do anything for you," he adds. "Reek, you can either have this food, or you can sleep on my floor."

Reek can't remember when he last ate, but there's no question of what his answer will be. "Let me sleep," he whispers. "If it pleases you, Master, please."

Ramsay pops a bit of potato into his mouth. "Are you sure? I won't offer you food again."

A few nights ago, Reek would have done anything for food, but now, he'd do anything for rest.

"Let me sleep," he repeats.

Ramsay smiles. "As you chose," says Ramsay.

He lays a fur out on the floor and pats it. Reek can hardly believe his eyes, but Ramsay nods, inviting. Reek never sleeps on furs. Reek sleeps on the frozen floor, or, if he's very lucky, he sleeps inside, rolled on the stone near the fire. "For you," Ramsay says, making it real.

Reek collapse into the fur. His exhaustion snuffs out his consciousness like a hammer. His eyes drift shut before his head even hits the floor. He just so notices Ramsay pulling another fur over his curled form and he'd weep in gratitude at this much goodness and kindness.

By the grace of Lord Ramsay, he sleeps.

"If you don't feed him, he will die," Roose Bolton says softly, patiently, like to a very dim child.

"Oh, I feed him," Ramsay says, dismissing. It's true. Ramsay feeds him seed, and piss, and Reek's own blood, and always, always more than Reek deserves. Reek knows.

Ramsay snaps his fingers and Reek limps over to refill Ramsay's cup.

"And dessert, you stupid bitch."

Reek nods, dizzy, and hastens to comply. When he moves too quickly, the world tilts sideways, but you mustn’t let Ramsay wait, not ever. He sets the honeyed cakes in front of Ramsay.

Roose watches, impassive.

When Reek tries to offer him a plate, he refuses with a small flick of his hand.

"You've had him serve your guests, dressed like this, smelling like this." Roose Bolton's voice is quiet like a blade.

"Oh, I know, I know," Ramsay waves his knife, "it's unconventional, having a dog serve at your banquets, but Reek so loves to be of help. Don't you, Reek?"

"Of course, Master," says Reek, eyes glazed.

There was a time, maybe, where Reek frantically tried to think his way through Ramsay's mind. Tried to give the correct answer, tried to anticipate Ramsay's reaction. But somewhere between the waking and the starving, or maybe just the hurting, Reek has stopped most thinking. If Reek is injured or hungry, he couldn't tell. Reek is a tiny spot floating somewhere behind a broken body swaying in space. Reek stares, mouth slack, mind blank.

Roose Bolton rests his hands in his lap. His pale eyes study Reek.

"Ramsay, explain this to me. What do you believe happens, when the Northern Lords, our allies, see your hostage, prince Theon Greyjoy, heir of the Iron Islands, looking and behaving like this?"

In spite of all Reek learned not to be any more, a very distant pain raises its head at hearing this name and designation. Dim and horrible memories manifest, a dead man's memories, nearly as painful as Ramsay's flaying knife. Nearly. Reek shudders. He'd protest the name, but it's not his place to speak or think.

"It's a display of my power," says Ramsay.

Roose's cold eyes pierce through Reek. His gaze trail him up and down, assessing.

"Is it, though?" Roose Bolton's voice is barely above a whisper, soft like silk. "Why should they approve of this? Walk me through your thought process, here."

Ramsay's mouth tightens in impatience.

"What, you think they care?" he snaps, defensive. "You think they will protest his treatment? Because I assure you, they don't."

Ramsay has often called Reek to entertain his guests, and they did not at all protest what Ramsay did. Some participated.

"Oh, no, they don't care about his suffering at all," Roose agrees. "They welcome it, obviously."

Reek knows this. He is evil and undeserving of help. His only salvation is Lord Ramsay. Only Lord Ramsay can show him mercy. They taught him this and he learned. So why does it feel like drowning to hear it said like that?

"But what do they see in you, Ramsay?" Roose is saying. "What do they learn of you, when they see him?"

"My ruthlessness," says Ramsay. "As they should."

"Your depravity," says Roose, features smooth and blank. "Your indiscretion. Your unreliability. The fact that you occupy your time with your debased proclivities unworthy of the name I graciously bestowed on you."

Ramsay's face turns sour and Reek has trouble breathing.

"I have always served you well and I occupy my time with plenty else, as you know. My Reek is mine and I do with him as I please."

Roose steeples his fingers. His tone is very mild.

"Yours? This creature you fuck in public and parade around, stinking up the place, it belongs to me," he corrects. "Everything in these walls belongs to me. Theon Greyjoy belongs to me."

Ramsay stares at Reek, a stare that makes Reek wish he was already long dead.

"I care not what you do to him," Roose says, "but you will keep him alive. I have arranged for my wife to come join me. You will treat her with courtesy and you will spare her the sight of your perversions. I trust that you will not disappoint me."

Ramsay keeps staring at Reek, a promise of pain, jaw tight, but he nods his head, minutely.

"I won't, father," he agrees.

When Ramsay summons him in the evening, an acute dread is thrumming through Reek.

"Kneel."

Reek falls to his knees.

Ramsay is pacing, agitation buzzing through the air, like before a storm.

"Put your hand on the table."

Reek obeys, trembling.

Ramsay takes out his knife, flicks it in his hand, then seems to reconsider, impatient. He spears the knife into the wood, then slams his boot into Reeks back, hard. He kicks, and kicks, and kicks, putting his weight behind it, releasing his anger into Reek's ribs and spine and flanks and sides. Reek curls up, tries to keep his hand on the table as he was told, but slides down under the force of the assault. He rolls into a ball, tries to protect his skull and belly. Ramsay picks up the chair and crashes it on Reek's back. He grabs Reek's head and smashes it against the floor. Reek's nose breaks with a pop, blood pools on the floor. Ramsay steps back with a sigh.

"Your fucking hand on the table, cunt," he resumes.

Reek obeys, with effort.

"Now," says Ramsay, picking up his knife. "What did my father call you again?"

Blood is dripping out of Reek's mouth.

"This creature you fuck in public," he offers.

"Mhmm," says Ramsay, and draws a line with the knife over Reek's forearm and wrist, over the back of Reek's hand. He slides the knife under the skin, cuts a sharp angle at the end of the line.

"What else did he call you?"

Reek is sobbing. It is not Reek's fault that Ramsay's father put him down so, but it is Reek that will pay. Reek would want to reach a comforting hand to Ramsay. _Don't let it get to you_ , he'd want to say. _Fathers be like that_. Reek wants Ramsay to be happy. Reek's existence is tied to his master's happiness. But this here is how Ramsay comforts himself, and so Reek has no choice but to take it.

"I... don't know," he lies.

Ramsay holds Reek's wrist tight to the table and slams his boot into Reek's face, knocking out another tooth, squirting more blood out of Reek's nose.

"Don't play fucking coy," he snaps. "What name did he call you?"

"T-Theon Greyjoy," Reek admits.

"Mhm," says Ramsay. He slides the knife further under Reek's skin, peels up a corner, pulls. Reek is so starved he has barely any fat left under his skin. As the tissue separates, there's the most meagre coat of bubbly yellow, then the pink-white sheen of wasted muscle. Ramsay tugs, with careful strokes of his knife, severs a long, narrow strip of skin from Reek's flesh, from his hand to his forearm. Reek tucks his howling head into his shoulder, leaning into the table. He knows better than to beg for mercy.

"And why would he call you that?" Ramsay asks.

"He's wrong! He's mistaken!" Reek yells, snot and blood and tears all dripping down his face. "I'm not him! I'm Reek!"

Ramsay leans down to look into Reek's face. He pulls Reek's hair until Reek looks him straight in the eye. "Are you calling my lord father a liar, Reek? Are you calling him stupid?"

Reek sobs. He can't win this game. He can't. "No! No, of course not." Or should he agree? What does Ramsay want to hear? "I mean, no one is as clever as you, m'lord, not even your lord father," he adds. "So whatever you say I am that must be the truth."

"Mhm," says Ramsay, and starts another line with his knife, further up Reek's forearm. He clicks his tongue, shakes his head. "That's pathetic, Reek. Try again. Who is this Theon Greyjoy?"

Ramsay's knife burns through Reek's flesh and Reek howls.

"Theon Greyjoy was a coward and traitor and murderer and a pathetic, vain, evil, _stupid_ bitch. Everyone hated him! He's dead! I'm glad he's dead!" 

Ramsay tugs another strip of skin from Reek's arm. The walls shine dreamlike. The floor is insubstantial as cloud. Reek floats amidst his nightmare and endures.

"Are you sure he's dead?" Ramsay asks.

Theon's memories and Theon's fears and Theon's hate. Theon's dreams of escape. Theon's longing for death. Theon's unending despair. He's alive in Reek, in spite of Reek's best efforts, and Reek mustn't lie to Ramsay, not ever.

"I'm so sorry, Master," he cries. "I try. I try to be good. I try to kill him. I'm Reek, I'm weak, I'm your freak."

Ramsay drips some oil into Reek's naked flesh. He reaches for a candle and sets him alight.

Reek screams himself raw and Ramsay cradles Reek's head to his chest. The smell of roasted flesh fills the room, sharp and crisp. "For once, you smell delicious," Ramsay comments. Reek clings to Ramsay's shirt, desperate.

Ramsay pats Reek's hair and kisses the crown of his head.

"Keep trying," he says.

**Author's Note:**

> That's it for now! More might come, or it might not. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
